


Beg for It

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [72]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Begging, Blindfolds, Bottom Sam, Breathplay, Case Fic, Consensual Kink, Dancing and Singing, Domestic, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Hunters & Hunting, Jealous Dean Winchester, Kinky Dean, Kinky Sam, M/M, Marking, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Series, Restraints, S&M, Sam In Panties, Sex Toys, Song Lyrics, Top Dean, Topping from the Bottom, Valentine's Day, obnoxious Dean, sandworms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3370325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story of how Dean kills a sand worm, gets jealous over Sam, and takes Charlie's advice. Featuring multiple kinks, Megan Trainor, and Nicki Minaj.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beg for It

His name is Chester.

They meet him on a hunt.

In the middle of a soybean field, Chester and Sam bond over calibers, shotguns, and the history of the scythe. Leave it to Sam to nerd out over a weapon he isn’t even using—it’s Dean’s turn with the scythe, dammit—while trudging through a field at two in the morning, hunting a mutant worm. Some asshat scientist in Peoria thought it’d be fun to genetically modify worms, because they seemed the least likely to Hulk out on him.

Shithead.

Dean handcuffed him to a work table to fucking sit still while they cleaned up his mess. It should be a fucking requirement for all scientists to watch Jurassic Park.

Doesn’t anyone remember Jeff Goldbum’s wisdom? Life always finds a way, motherfuckers.

Chester is a hunter on a trip from London, which means he has a funny, doofy accent. Dean can hear the out of place u’s in his speech. And like the stereotype Dean has in his mind of most English men, Chester has a mustache and wears tweed. He’s also tall, slim, and according to Sam, looks a lot like Martin Freeman.

If it weren’t so dark, Dean could probably see Sam’s hard on. He’s lapping up Chester’s stories about English lore and legend. Ugh. No one cares about how many queens haunt the Tower. No one cares about how King Henry VIII couldn’t keep it in his pants. And no one fucking cares that Chester is Stateside for an entire month and has purchased tickets to three opera shows at the Chicago Opera House downtown.

“I’ve always wanted to go,” Sam sighs, stepping over barbed wire fencing. “They’re playing Figaro this season, aren’t they?”

“Oh you should, it’s quite the experience,” Chester replies with a chuff. “I’ve had the pleasure of attending that establishment four times prior. And you know what they say about Figaro, Samuel.”

Dean grimaces at that. He could throw up right here, right now.

What’s worse though? Samuel, or the ridiculous joke that follows?

“Once you go buffa…” Sam starts.

“…you don’t go back. Yes! How jolly to find your company in such an environment, Samuel!”

Ha, ha, ha. They share an old boy’s laugh and Dean wants to turn around and smack Sam with the blunt end of the scythe. Is this really happening? The sandworm he can deal with—but this? This is gross. Chester blathers on about how most American hunters he meets don’t know the difference between grand opera and opera verismo.

“Most hunters Stateside are boorish, poorly dressed, Cheapside vigilantes blasting their… classic rock.” A rumble can be felt about eight feet deep in the ground. “And they hardly have any concept of proper tea, manners, or etiquette.”

“Cheapside vigilante my hairy yellow butt,” Dean grouses under his breath, stomping ahead of Jeeves and Wooster.

“What was that, Dean?” Sam snaps.

God dammit. “It’s fucking cold out here, _Sam_.”

“Well, maybe you should’ve worn layers like I said.”

“Quite,” Chester chimes in. “Indeed, I knew tonight would be chilly.”

“Oh, it’s awful this time of year. Your scarf looks warm enough, though.”

“Does it? Well, I’m glad to hear it. It is quite toasty. Would you care to wear it? You have no such garment, Samuel, I should scold you for such an oversight.”

Here they are, in the middle of butt fuck nowhere, where Dean is certain that some crazed, irate farmer is going to run out with his shotgun and tell them to git off his land and stop tromping on what will soon be soy lattes for thousands of hipsters across Illinois. Who cares about this worm? So it feasts on human flesh, it hasn’t technically done anything yet other than escape from a steel cage within a locked lab. Maybe it has decided to dedicate itself to a vegan lifestyle. Maybe all it needs is one chance at…

“Shut up,” Dean hisses over his shoulder. In his right hand, he lifts up the scythe and stands still, listening to the ground give way and feeling for the next set of vibrations. The old hens behind him do as they’re told, but Dean can’t concentrate with their breathing so near. Fuck. His breath is visible in the navy darkness around them.

Before they came out to the field, he debated on leaving his cane in the car. Would it slow him down? Would it give their position away? Well, the three of them are all over six feet tall; it’s highly unlikely the worm wouldn’t know where they were walking.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t add something extra to the mix; cane it was. He has walked with it like normal throughout the entire field.

The worm is partial to dried meat.

Dean knew there was a reason he hadn’t thrown out this package of jerky in the dashboard. Sam owes him a beer. And a fucking explanation of why he’s suddenly butt buddies with Chester.

Splitting from the old hens, Dean takes four loud steps forward, leaning heavily on his cane, tapping more than he needs to. Poor worm. It didn’t ask to be made. Dean has always found sympathy with the monsters, not the Frankensteins.  Some stupid ass scientist decides to play God and it always goes wrong. Everything goes Mew 2 and the ones who suffer are the creations. If Dean had any desire to tame and keep an eight foot sandworm, he might consider…

“FUCK.”

Dirt and top soil erupt two feet away from Dean. He pitches back, covering his face with his left arm, away from the debris and the jaw big enough to chew through a laboratory work table. Slimy, gray, and pulsing, the worm flails. It screeches, blind but not mute, and extracts itself from the ground. Its movements are bizarre—erratic and jittery. Above the surface, its balance is lost, and it takes a minute to gain its bearings.

“I say, this is exactly like a good fox hunt.”

“This might be a little more difficult.”

“Ho, ho, Samuel, what nonsense. All it needs is a good bullet between the… well, I was going to say eyes, but our friend here seems to lack those. Allow me to give it a try?”

Oh god, the Brit wants to play hero.

From its place, the worm becomes agitated, driven to confusion and desperation by the smell of jerky and the harsh surroundings of the surface. Curling, winding, and hissing, it rolls over, snapping its tail in Chester’s direction, knocking the man off his feet.

“HAH,” Dean blurts out, jubilant, about to make a comment about the Queen. Lousy Brit comes all the way from Glouswestnorthchester and hits on Sam right in front of him—who the _fuck_ does that? Wankers, that’s who.

Unfortunately, Dean’s rejoicing is cut short.

The sandworm turns on him. It follows sound, and he just guffawed like an idiot.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Dean is whispering, but that’s not helping him any as he runs away. This thing has better ears than an elephant.

Gun shots ring out.

“Stop shooting!” Dean screams, dodging left and right. “You’re gonna fucking hit me!”

“I’m trying to distract it!” Sam screams back. “You suck at being a team player, Dean!”

“SCREEEEEE.” The sandworm lifts half its body up three feet and slams itself into the ground, trying to throw Dean off balance. Although Sam’s gun is loud, it doesn’t give two shits about it because Dean is closer and smells like jerky. Why hadn’t girls in high school been so attentive to him this way?

A brisk run through a soybean field is not what Dean had had in mind at the start of this hunt.

Panting from a good ten minutes of running, dodging, and diving, Dean decides that it’s time to change his fucking tactics. He’ll be worm chow if he doesn’t think of something fast.

Shooting at the damn worm hardly has any affect on it. It’s too large to register the bullets lodged in its body and the blood loss is miniscule. In short—bullets are useless. However, shooting has the advantage of giving them a wider range of motion. A shot gun would be needed to blast a hole inside it big enough to cause some damage.

“DEAN.”

“WORKING ON IT.”

“HURRY UP!”

“SHUT UP, SAM.”

One of the disadvantages of following this sandworm out into this field is that a field is flat land. There are very little options. Except for… but would it follow? Only one way to find out.

Dean turns around, cycling back towards the path they walked in on. He holds up a handful of jerky alongside the scythe and starts tapping his cane on the ground five times for every step. He’s not really using it at this point so much as he’s working to get the worm’s attention. This doesn’t bode well for his knee later, but fuck it, later on there hopefully won’t be an eight foot sandworm hounding after him.

Irritated, the worm lets out a piercing shriek that pummels the ear drums of everyone in its vicinity. Dean resists the urge to cover his ears. He keeps the jerky up and starts tapping his cane at six beats per step, slamming the end of it harder into the ground. Soybean rows are hobbled over. The worm whips the end of its tail forward, curling like a giant U, trying to knock Dean off his feet. But thanks to the stuffed peacock Brit, the second Dean hears the rustle of the worm’s body contorting, he takes a deep breath and runs hard to the left. The gray, oily tail misses him by two inches.

Time to end this.

For a guy his age to run at this speed for this length of time? Hell no.

The destination is in view. Dean says a small prayer for this to work the way he thinks it should. If not, he’s completely fucked. The jerky is pitched as far away forward from him as possible. He rams his cane into the soil an arm’s length away from him. The worm responds with another shriek and flail of its girth. It’s an ugly sonofabitch—no eyes, all jagged, spiked teeth and red gums. It churns towards Dean faster, mouth open, strings of saliva hanging from its maw.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Two steps before the target, Dean jumps.

Farmer John has placed barbed wire throughout the edge of his property. It’s meant to keep trespassers out, but it works to snag an eight foot sandworm just as well.

The one problem to Dean’s plan is that the sandworm is going too fast to completely stop, even though it’s tethered in barbed wire. It slides forward some, thrashing, dragging in the dirt, angered and screaming. Dean lands hard on the worm, near the mouth.

“Not the leg, not the leg,” Dean yips, pulling his right leg away before it becomes a donation.

He tumbles, totally off balance, and struggles to stay on the fucking thing. He can’t be thrown off now. The barbed wire was only half of the plan.

On his back, Dean raises his right arm up.

Seconds before the worm twists free from the wire, Dean brings the scythe down.

The scythe pierces the oily hide near the worm’s mouth. Screeching and convulsing, the worm turns over, belly up, exposing its throat. Opportunity given, Dean hacks away at it and takes out his gun. Steadied on the neck, watching the head of the worm twitch back and forth, Dean fires two rounds into the roof of the worm’s mouth. Three more firm chops, black blood gushing around him, Dean fires off three additional rounds.

His last bullet slices through tissue, lodging itself directly into the worm’s brain.

The head drops onto the ground with a thud. The body comes to a stop in the dirt, covered in barbed wire. If the worm had managed to spike its tail again, it would’ve been a fatal blow to Dean from the force of it and the barbs stuck to it.

All the worm does now is lay there, its jaw hanging open and its tongue rolled out.

Unsteady on his feet after an unexpected worm ride, Dean stumbles off of the body. Where the fuck is his cane? Jesus, the worm’s breath reeks. He’s also covered in blood splatter from his attempt at decapitating the stupid thing, but it doesn’t stink like the foul odor coming from the mouth. Oh yeah. He’s gonna hurl.

“You’re crazy,” a familiar, nagging voice yells from twenty feet away. “You could’ve been killed!”

Did Sam not see _Tremors_? If Kevin Bacon could survive a host of graboids, Dean could handle one god damn worm. Oh god—the smell.

Dean is not pleased to see Sam shouldering Chester. The Brit comments that there might’ve been more expedient methods of disposing of the beast if they had used chemicals. Sam grumbles on about Dean taking over hunts and how he’s an asshole for acting without a backup plan or even letting Sam know what his first plan was. The three of them stand a few feet away from the worm’s body.

“I seem to have sprained my ankle,” Chester sighs. “Samuel, you’ve been so helpful to me, I thank you.”

“I didn’t do much,” Sam replies, doing a weird hair flip thing as he holds Chester up. “But you’re most welcome.”

What the fuck?

Who just killed the eight foot science project gone wrong? Who the fuck just displayed acts of heroic strength and cunning? Dean’s only response before he trudges back to baby is simple.

He throws up on Chester’s shoes.

 

The British invasion is undeterred by vomit. Throughout the week, Dean gives serious thought to trying it again, but Chester’s shoes are saved by Mrs. Martinez’s food. That’s definitely food way too good to waste throwing up onto some stuffed peacock’s expensive leather shoes. Maybe if he eats some McDonald’s… that’ll do the trick.

Sam goes out with Chester every night for an entire fucking week.

And what’s worse is how _boring_ it all sounds to Dean when Sam comes home and gabs about it. They went to the opera, the symphony, the Museum of Contemporary Art, the Auditorium Theater for a play, and to the Shakespeare Theater at Navy Pier. Sam is wined and dined at five star restaurants all over the city. He calls Juana just to ramble on about the views at The Signature Room, eating filet mignon and lobster on the 95 th floor of the John Hancock building with 360 degree, floor to ceiling views of the city. He crows on about how perfectly cooked his steak was and how creamy the mashed potatoes were.

Invitations are extended to Dean in the beginning, but Dean knows that that’s on Sam’s part, not Chester’s. He’d much rather stay at home nursing a beer or four and watching a Jaws marathon. He is tempted to go just to be a pain in the ass and to keep Chester’s hands where they belong, but that would also mean sitting through four hours of opera or three hours of nonstop classical music.

Besides, Sam is a grown man. He can go out with friends, even if his choice in friends sucks ass.

On the sixth night of staying home alone, Dean decides fuck this shit. He picks up his phone and mashes buttons until the number he wants starts to ring.

He has friends too. He can do fun things with other people who are not Sam.

 

Their meeting place is exactly what Dean hoped it would be.

“This place thrives on the exploitation of women,” Charlie declares, seated at their table. Her eyes, however, are not on Dean as she speaks. They’re not anywhere near Dean. They haven’t been since the moment they walked in. “It supports an industry of… little… t-shirts…”

Their waitress is a bustier version of Carrie Underwood, blonde, leggy, and perky.

Her name is Jenny and she’s going to be taking care of them tonight.

“Drinks?” Jenny asks, resting both hands on the table, her bright, blue eyes looking at Dean and Charlie. “We’ve got a great tap.”

Charlie almost has a nosebleed.

“You think my friend and I could get some tequila?” Dean rumbles, taking over since Charlie is a shell of a person at the moment. He keeps his eyes where they’re supposed to be. Jenny has a winning smile and kind eyes. “Patron, if you’ve got it.”

“Sure thing,” Jenny chirps. “I’ll grab those and swing back to get your orders.”

Blonde hair bounces away. Dean snaps his fingers a few inches away from Charlie’s face.

“You okay?”

“Oh,” is exhaled, followed by a nod. “Sure, sure. You know, just a little… frustrated in _that_ department. But that’s probably over-sharing and nothing a little triple A battery time and re-watching _Guardians of the Galaxy_ can’t fix. Is it hot in here? I feel flushed. Phew. Anyway!” Charlie folds her hands in front of her on the table and leans forward. She looks good. Rested. “This can’t be why you called, which, by the way, I was totally psyched about.”

Sitting back, Dean rubs his chin, thinking about his reply for a second.

Brow furrowed, he asks, “ _Guardians of the Galaxy_? Chris Pratt does it for you? Really?”

Charlie sighs. “No, of course not. Zoe Saldana, hello? You’ve never seen the movie? Well, she wears this leather suit the whole time and a bunch of stuff happens.”

“I can’t watch a movie with a talking raccoon.”

“Rocket is the shit, Dean. So is Groot.”

“Who’s that?”

“The talking tree.”

Jenny arrives with the god send of shots. She’s gone ahead and given them two shots each. Dean orders a basket of wings then sits back and watches Charlie order boneless wings with a side of curly fries. This time, Charlie makes eye contact with Jenny, and leans in towards her to order. Charlie closes her menu, hands it to Jenny, and smiles. Jenny lingers for a second longer than last time, then walks away slow.

“Frustrated,” Dean murmurs, holding his shot up. “Cheers.”

Picking up her shot, Charlie knocks it back, grimacing but nodding. “Ooph, yeah. I just… took a break from… _that_.” She nods over to Jenny, who is now at the bar. “In general, I mean.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she shrugs. “Sometimes taking a break from _that_ clears your head. But okay, enough about me and my temporary flirt with celibacy. I heard about the sandworm you killed last week, which you know, totally sounds like code for masturbation. ‘Hey dude, heard you _killed_ that sandworm.’”

Dean knocks back his shot. He points at Charlie and nods. “Yeah, it does. Sam didn’t think so but it does.”

“Where’s Sam tonight? I have a book for him.”

“He’s out with his boyfriend,” Dean grumbles, looking into his empty shot glass. “Dude is here from England for a month and glommed onto the Sasquatch. He thinks Sam has taste.” He goes on to detail the opera outings and the trips across the city that Chester has seen so fit to invite Sam along on.

“Huh. Okay.”

“What?”

“It’s just… weird.”

“You’re tellin’ me.”

“It’s the day before Valentine’s Day, too.”

“What? For real?”

Charlie points to the red and white streamers hung around Hooters. And of course, there are glittery, paper Cupids and cut out hearts plastered all over the bar. The notion of Valentine’s Day inside a Hooters is depressing. Dean reaches for his second shot.

“I can’t believe you forgot,” Charlie says, astonished, leaning back into her chair.

“I didn’t forget,” Dean snaps. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy sulking, laying around in your boxers watching movies, wondering when Sam is gonna get home?”

“No!”

A smug smile is just barely suppressed.  Charlie is pleased with herself. “Uh huh. Well, you still got two days to plan something awesome. You think he forgot too?”

“I didn’t forget!”

Food is brought out to them by different waitresses since Jenny’s section has gotten busier in the last ten minutes. Dean stuffs his face with wings and steals a handful of fries from Charlie’s basket. She passes him the ketchup and orders two beers from a passing waitress. They dig in, switching the conversation to something more pleasant, like the ghouls she took out in Cleveland and the hipster spirits haunting a thrift store in Milwaukee. She updates him on a few folks; Kevin is his usual cheerful, outgoing self, which means he’s been holed away in the bunker, fielding lore calls from hunters and sleeping fourteen hours a day. Garth is doing well in his commune of werewolves. He just started teaching art classes to kids on the weekends. Oz is a mash up of totally cool and completely absurd.

Dorothy wants Charlie to visit more often. Charlie wants Dorothy to visit more often.

“We’re not exclusive,” Charlie mumbles, pushing away her empty basket of food and reaching for her second shot. “I mean, neither one of us could permanently live in each other’s worlds. I always need a break from Oz. And she always needs a break from here.”

Dean takes a pull from his beer. “That’s tough cookies.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Anyway, I think I have a solution for you.”

“Is it edible lube?”

“…no?”

“Not interested.”

“What… do I even want to know? No. No, I don’t.”

“Well, you see, when two men put a hoo-hah in a bam-bam they need lube.”

“Stop it!” Charlie covers her ears. “I can’t listen to talk about hoo-hahs! I’ll lose my street cred!”

Cackling, Dean shakes his head. He holds his hands up and concedes to stop any future mention of hoo-hahs or ding-a-lings or weenies or yoo-hoos or one-eyed monsters or Johnsons or…

Jenny stops by with the check, eyebrows raised but smiling. “Uh, I don’t know what I just walked into, but here’s the check. Take your time, totally no rush.” She locks eyes with Charlie. “No rush at all.”

Once they’re alone again, Charlie leans forward. “I’ll meet you at your place later.”

“What? Why not now? I can drive you back.”

Charlie’s eyes flit over to Jenny at the bar. Jenny looks up and smiles, biting her bottom lip.

“I thought you were taking a break,” Dean mentions. He takes out his wallet.

“Dude, I got this.” Charlie takes out her own wallet and grabs the check. “And my break has killed off enough batteries to harm the earth. I don’t want my carbon footprint to increase any more. I’m doing the responsible thing.” She stands and pats Dean on his shoulder. “I’ll be over in a few hours.”

Dean stands up, shaking his head. “Few hours? Really?”

With a smile, Charlie bumps their shoulders together. “She’s off in ten minutes.”

“How do you know that?”

“She wrote it on the check.”

 

Three hours later, in the garage, Charlie and Dean hold a secret meeting.

Cat pays all the attention to Charlie, rubbing against her legs, purring and refraining from struggling or biting when Charlie picks her up.

“This is the second pu…”

“Stop,” Dean grumbles, dragging out the stereo as requested. “Don’t make that joke.”

“But it’s such a good joke.”

“Don’t.”

“He’s always a grouch,” Charlie murmurs into Cat’s fur. “If I were you, I would bite his toes a lot more often. Like, a lot.”

A meow is given. Cat wiggles and Charlie lets her go to disappear into the shadows of the garage. She’s got a mouse toy stashed away somewhere. Dean finishes plugging the stereo into an extension cord and stands up, hands out. “So? What’s your big idea?”

Charlie runs a hand through her short hair. “Well, what’s one thing you’ve got that no one else does when it comes to Sam?”

“Uh… rock hard abs?”

“…” Dean keeps the crooked grin on his face through the glare and the suffering sigh. “Are you gonna take this seriously, Dean?”

“Yeah,” he coughs, shrugging and kicking at the garage floor. “Yeah, of course.”

A CD is procured from Charlie’s knapsack. She pops it into the stereo and commands Dean to stand in the center of the garage, where there’s the most space.

“You can always make Sam laugh,” Charlie says, confident and sure.

The second Charlie hits play, Dean knows he’s in trouble.

 

When Dean doesn’t wake up to grilled cheese and bacon the next morning, it’s clear to him that Sam forgot all about Valentine’s Day. If Dean has to be fair, he also technically forgot, but he remembered in time and that’s what matters.

It’s abundantly clear that Sam forgot when Dean hears his current conversation with Chester over the phone. Sam is in the living room, pacing from the sound of it.

“No, I would _love_ to see Figaro. It’s my favorite. Tonight’s the last performance? Oh. At seven? Yes, well, I did see that it got good reviews. Stellar, reviews, actually. Uh, it’s just that… oh, yeah, I do remember our conversation from last night. No, I didn’t know that about Nietzsche. Yeah, it was great. Listen, can I get back to you about tonight? It’s just that… well, today is… Box seats? Wow. I-I… _how_? That’s some hookup. Okay, just give me ten minutes. I’ll call you right back.”

Sam is going to go to the fucking opera with the overgrown hobbit and Dean is going to be stuck with a carton of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. Charlie suggested his own set of triple A battery fun if today didn’t work out.

No, you know what? The fuck with moping. The fuck with grumbling at Sam after this phone call that he’s spending time with someone else that isn’t him. Only obnoxious shit can come out of that and while Dean is the King of Being Obnoxious, he’s not gonna do it this way. He killed a fucking sandworm last week. He can handle this even if it feels unnatural to be vying for Sam’s attention. Sam is supposed to fight for _his_ attention, not the other way around.

But then… maybe it’s always been this way.

Stomping out into the living room, dressed in his dark gray pajama pants and a Henley, Dean marches up to Sam, who is still on the phone.

Sam peers over at Dean, curious, but unbothered. He’s gonna say yes. He’s gonna go out with Jeeves and have the time of his life seeing this damn opera and he’s gonna wonder why he stays in this tiny house with a man who can’t stand to see a mess in the kitchen or clothes on the floor.

He might…

He might see how small Dean is, with and without him.

“Don’t go,” Dean blurts out. He was going to grab for the phone, but his hands are frozen at his sides, clenched together. “Stay in tonight.” He hesitates to add what’s next. “…please.”

A smile is the last thing Dean expects.

But it’s what he gets.

“I’ll call you later, Chester. Thank you again. Yes, goodbye.” Sam hangs up. He rests his hands on his hips. “That was Chester, in case you didn’t know. He was offering me two tickets to go see Figaro tonight.” Sam is just a little smug and he waits ten seconds before adding, “One of those tickets was for me and the other was for you.”

Cat stays out of this mess. She is curled up over the heater, tail swishing from the noise the humans around her are making. Dean wishes he’d stayed curled up in bed. Fuck.

Sam smiles again and shakes his head. “I didn’t say yes because _you_ don’t like the opera and I already have two tickets to something else.”

“What else?” He has to ask. He can’t not know.

“Well, I was gonna tell you over dinner, but I guess you just can’t wait. I have two tickets to a monster truck rally out in the suburbs.” The tickets are procured from Sam’s jeans and held up. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Dean.”

“Now,” Sam starts, sitting down in the unoccupied sofa, “you are gonna tell me what your outburst was. Did you think something else was going on? We need to talk about this.”

Double shit.

“Get over here, Dean.”

“Look, Sam, wouldn’t you think the same thing if I spent every night with Charlie?” Ugh, not those words. Why is his mouth always so disconnected from his brain?

Pursed lips and unhappy dimples make an appearance. Sam sighs. “First of all, Charlie’s a lesbian, so _no_ , I wouldn’t think that. Second, Dean, you’re married. So am I, jackass.”

Sam doesn’t make a point to show off his ring, but it’s there in plain sight, like it always is. Dean clenches his left hand; his ring is there, just like always.

He takes a few steps forward, until he’s an inch away from Sam on the couch.

Opening his mouth to apologize, Dean is hushed by a firm hand grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him down. Sam’s mouth hovers just above Dean’s. “I know you’re sorry, Dean,” is murmured in a low, serious tone. “And I know you don’t think I’d do something like that. But I’m going to spend time with other people.”

“Does it have to be _him_?”

“Yes. I like him. And I’m not asking you—I’m telling.”

“I know.”

“And I know you know,” Sam says, and presses a kiss to Dean’s nose. “Tell me you missed me this week.” Hazel eyes look up at him in a manner that is unfair and should be off limits.

Grudgingly, Dean mutters, “I missed you this week.”

The grip on his shirt is lessened. Long fingers card through Dean’s hair. “I missed you too.”

A little while later, Sam informs Dean that the rally starts at seven, so they should leave by four for dinner and travel time to the suburbs. It’s everything Dean loves in a night out—trucks crushing cars, burgers at Kuma’s, and Sam to be with and come home to at the end. So Dean respectfully declines the monster truck rally, even if it physically pains him to do so. He mutters that Chester better not have bought scalped tickets.

If it’s opera that Sammy wants, it’s going to be opera Sammy gets.

At least this once.

“Just this one time,” Dean clarifies, leading Sam into the garage. “Just this one single time.”

“Mmhmm, sure.”

“No—say it back to me. ‘Yes, Dean, this will be the only time you will ever have to sit through an opera.’ Say it like that.”

“Mmhmm, sure.”

 

It’s now or never for Sam’s gift. If Dean waits any longer, there won’t be a gift.

Their garage can technically fit two cars, but baby takes up the right side and a little more, while Dean stands in the center of the left side. The stereo is still hooked up. Sam sits in a patio chair and waits while Dean fusses with the volume. For February, the garage is warm. This is thanks to the heated floor and wall panels Dean installed himself to keep baby warm.

Dean stands up and looks around at his audience. Just one. Good. No one else needs to know about the event currently taking place.

 _Because you know I’m all about that bass, ‘bout that bass. Yeah, it’s pretty clear, I ain’t no size two._ For the first two and a half minutes of this song, Dean knows every choreographed step.

 _But I can shake it, shake it, like I’m supposed to do. ‘Cause I got that boom-boom that all the boys chase._ He mimics every single move Charlie taught him, which is the gal who’s singing this moves. _All the right junk in all the right places_. He brings attention to all his junk, in front and in back, swinging his hips, working his arms. They practiced for hours. If the moves aren’t tight, then it’s just sad.

And what matters the most is that Sam is laughing so hard he can’t breathe.

 _I’m all about that bass, ‘bout that bass, no treble. Every inch of you is perfect from the bottom to the top_. Dean kicks and sways and wiggles his shoulders. But that’s nothing compared to what he has for a certain line.

_I’m bringin’ booty baaaaack._

Hips out, Dean begins to shake his ass back and forth.

 _Yeah my momma, she told me don’t worry about your size. She says boys they like a little more booty to hold at night._  Dean runs his hands up and down the length of his body, paying special attention to his ass. In true diva fashion, when he pivots to turn, he flips at his imaginary hair. _I won’t be no stick figure, silicon Barbie dollar. I’m all about that bass, ‘bout that bass, ‘bout that bass, no treble._

He’s able to do this without his cane because he took three Aleve last night, which he shouldn’t do, but it was totally worth it. He can shrug and shake his shoulders and pop his hips just as good as he can wrangle sandworms.

For the final few seconds of the song, he gets up close and person in Sam’s face, shaking his ass from side to side, arms above his head, each bounce of his ass perfectly coordinated to the chick singing this song. They watched the music video at least a hundred times in between practicing the actual steps. While Dean sort of wishes he could do the splits like the dude in the video, he settles for spinning around to face Sam, thrusting his hips with the tune and finishing with a Travolta pose.

“Holy shit,” Sam laughs, clapping and standing up. “That… uh…. _wow_.” Dimples are out for the right reasons. Hazel eyes look up at down at Dean, giving him the silent how you doin’.

Panting, Dean nods. “You can say it—say how awesome I am.”

“Well, yeah, but are you okay?”

Dean holds a finger up. “Yeah, just… gimme a minute…”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Uh huh.”

“Should I tip you?”

“Oh yeah.”

“You want your gift now or later?” Sam brushes a piece of Dean’s hair away from his forehead. That feels better than a hundred massages to his knee. They’ve gone all week without touching.

“Do I have to move for my gift?” Dean asks, rubbing the small of his back. Shaking his ass is more strenuous work than he thought it would be.

Sam opens the door to the house and leads Dean in. “Actually, no. That’s kind of the point of it.”

“It is?”

“Yeah.”

“Now, then.”

“Good.”

In the living room, Sam places both of his hands on Dean’s shoulders, near his chest. It’s ridiculous to think that anyone would ever be able to touch Dean this way. Long fingers graze at Dean’s throat. He shudders at the possibilities there.

“Get in bed,” Sam murmurs, keeping a hush to his voice. “And wait for me.”

 

February in Chicago is gray and cloudy.

It makes everything darker inside, casting a charcoal haze.

Snow might be in the future with the lack of sun and the chill to the air. But inside their home, it’s a warm seventy-two degrees. Underneath Sam’s hands, Dean is toasty—comfortably warm and pliant. What they do isn’t that complicated, but when Dean was a teenager, it was something he was willing to trade everything for.

He waits fifteen minutes before Sam steps out of the bathroom, changed out of his jeans and shirt and into a pair of Dean’s pajamas. That sight alone makes Dean’s chest squeeze. He used to dress Sam. He used to wake up this kid and tell him that hand me downs were cool and he would one day grow into his shirts. Now, Dean’s Henley is tight over Sam’s shoulders and chest, accentuating the muscles there, and this is definitely no kid.

Their bed has held up well so far.

Tangled up in dark blue sheets and their navy quilt, Sam kisses Dean, the pace languid and unhurried. Heat radiates between them as Sam licks into Dean’s mouth and presses his hands all over Dean.

When Dean moves to place his hands on Sam, a kiss is interrupted for Sam to say a few words.

“Not like that.”

No hands. No touching. Dean breathes out, wound up, but sinks into another kiss a second later. He gets caught up in it, Sam’s left hand in his hair as they lay side by side. The kisses are deep, timed just right. His bottom lip is nipped, his breath stolen, and every ounce of tension is abandoned. Absorbed in Sam all around him, an ache smoothes out over him, head to toe. Closer. Could they curl and arch and twist closer into each other...

Sam stretches Dean out. Thumbs graze over sensitive spots on Dean’s throat.

The bed creaks as Sam moves.

Dean is cold without him.

From half lidded eyes, Dean glimpses over at the nightstand, where Sam is picking up the needle and laying it gently down on a pink, marbled record. The volume is turned up. So much of their lives involves music—audible or not.

Standing up at the edge of the bed, Sam slips two black pieces of fabric out of a dresser drawer.

A blindfold.

And a silk tie.

The music is sensual; its tempo is guided by sultry, confident female voices. There’s a heavy bass in the background that Sam times the sway of his hips to, walking over to Dean’s side of the bed, self-assured, with his shoulders back and a smile on his lips. The lyrics give away just some of the plan.

 _Baby, just say pretty please_.

Dark, sleek silk is held up, over Dean’s chest.

He gives his wrists willingly.

No fancy knot. Just the basics. Tender veins and tendons are wrapped in cool fabric. A nudge is given; Dean raises his arms over his head. Silk meets the headboard, but he is not tethered. Restraint is all his. He will have nothing to work against, nothing to pull on. The muscles in his arms jump at the thought.

Over his throat, the blindfold is laid out. Teasing fingers skim over his chest, dipping down to his middle, curving around the tent between his legs.

This is dangerous.

 _Baby, just get on your knees_.

Sam stays at the bedside. He turns away from Dean and stretches, twisting the long line of his body, turning his hips out to highlight the curve and swell of his ass. The rhythm of the song is followed. His movements are fluid, never overly pronounced, and conducted with polish and poise. Broad shoulders bend forward. Dean clenches his hands.

Swift, sure hands lift the pajama pants up, bringing them down an inch.

Violet lace.

Breath hitching, Dean bites his lower lip.

Toed off, the pants are discarded. The Henley is kept on. Sam sinks into the song.

The panties are beautifully cut. A silver bow is on the back, the ends of it fluttering with the suggestion of movement. _Slow grindin’ I’m twerkin’ it._ Left, right, left, left…

On the wood floor, Sam’s bare feet balance out the provocative torment of his hips. Dean’s body responds in more ways than making him hard. The silk over his wrists is twisted, wrung, and gripped. Sam bows, his hips facing Dean, exposing miles of lean, muscled legs and firm thighs that lead up to lace stretched out over perfection.

Lifting up the Henley, allowing a peak at his middle, Sam smiles with a spark in his eyes.

“Beg for it,” Sam commands. His voice is not rough, but it is a statement, not a question.

Words? Dean’s brain can’t catch up. He doesn’t speak fast enough.

From the end of the bed, Sam picks up a new toy. It is twirled in his hands for a moment. The leather straps are simple, braided, about a foot long each. The base of it, on the other hand, is decorative, made of glass—a custom job.

Hazel eyes run up and down the length of Dean. Fabric is worked down, off of Dean’s legs.

This toy—it’s meant to extinguish every ounce of disobedience.

The first whip is exquisite. The snap of it, the sound, the sharp bite of it against the sensitive skin on his thighs is heady. Two of the straps land close to his cock, electrifying nerve endings, igniting pain and pleasure all at once. His cock swells. Another whip. Dean’s skin is pink, contrasting bright and flushed against the dark sheets. Sam’s aim is impeccable. On the third whip, a strap connects with the base of his cock. Scintillating sensations run through his cock, making him ache and arch towards Sam.

“Please,” Dean exhales, breathing ragged. “Sam, please.”

A quiet smile is his only response.

 _Twap_.

Two straps snap at the root of him, this time pushing him more towards pain, which makes his eyes roll back and his body shudder. His cock bobs. The muscles in his thighs flex and quiver. His hips start to undulate, driven by the need for friction over his cock—for relief.

From the other side of the room, the record player is turned off.

For Dean, that leaves only the sound of his heavy breathing and the pounding of his heart.

Tresses of leather ghost over the red marks over Dean’s thighs, producing a groan from his lips. A moment later, the tresses disappear, replaced with the cool, sleek, rounded glass base. It circles Dean’s cock, the tip of it dragging up the underside of him, nudging at the bloated head, pressing at the receptive nerves there.

Dean’s world goes dark.

Feathery touches to his temple slip on the blindfold.

Every other sense is heightened. A good hunter makes use of their senses in the absence of light.

 _Twap_.

Pain—tresses lap at the tender portion of skin between his cock and balls. Pleasure—the head of his cock is slipped into a warm, wet mouth. Sam’s tongue curls underneath the crown. Pressure is applied. The welts over Dean’s thighs are once more mapped out by the glass base, gliding, caressing, soothing. Every one of his senses is focused on Sam. He can pick up the scent of Sam’s morning cup of dark roast coffee, the sandalwood body wash from his shower, and the faintest trace of something lighter, airy, delicate.

He can hear the wicked slow suck of his cock by an expert mouth. The twitch he gives is followed by a groan. Shit. Sam suckles only the head, tonguing the slit, coaxing raw, pained noises from Dean, wrenching out the sound of Dean’s wrists and hands banging against the headboard.

Popped off, Sam exhales over Dean’s flushed and heavy cock.

Not knowing what might happen next makes Dean’s entire body tight.

The voice near his right ear speaks in calm, muted seriousness.

“I don’t need a dozen roses. You ain’t gotta wine and dine me, no.” Sam nips at the shell of his ear. The glass base taps Dean’s bottom lip, pushing in the smallest fraction.

“You gotta beg for it,” Sam whispers. “Baby, I’mma need you to _beg_.”

This is primal.

Dean’s response is rough, inelegant, half-crazed. His fingernails are digging into the palms of his hands. The bed dips. Lace scratches against the marks over his thighs. The sumptuous curve of Sam’s ass grinds against his cock. Friction is overwhelming. Dean whimpers against the knob of glass pressed against his lips. Yes. Yes. Ye—

Sam lifts his hips up. He sinks down over Dean’s cock in one long, fluid motion, already slicked up and open.

At the same time, the base pushes into Dean’s mouth. The groan he gives as his cock is buried in tight, undulating heat is muffled by the base stuffed into him. Sam is sloppy and slick around and all over his cock. Every time Sam takes a deep breath, Dean can feel the muscles in Sam’s lower stomach and hips work. He can smell the lube.

A sigh is given from above Dean. Movement begins.

This rhythm is fast, merciless, and wild.

For every bounce of Sam’s ass, the base is thrust into Dean’s mouth. Dean makes it good. He pushes his hips up as much as Sam will allow, and when he can’t pound into Sam, he starts to slurp the base, coating it with spit, opening his mouth wider. If he can’t see, then Sam has to see _this_. His throat and mouth work, swallowing, gagging, choking, taking every inch of the glass base with ease.

It works.

The bed creaks. Dean starts to sweat, working and being worked.

He tilts his chin up and swallows the base as far as he can, sealing his lips around it, Sam’s fingertips grazing his mouth. A generous view is given—the line of his throat blowing the base.

Their hips rock and grind together. Sam lets out a sharp exhale. He hit a good spot; he works his hips over it, fucking himself on Dean’s cock, riding him hard and desperate. His inner walls pulse and Dean’s cock twitches, fattened and thick.

Finish. Finish the mission. Finish.

The base is pulled out of Dean’s mouth, quickly, but with care.

Sam leans down, his hips tilted and fucking down in short, measured thrusts. Their mouths seal together and Sam laps up the mess around Dean’s lips. Hot breaths are exchanged. Dean arches up, crying out. Not much longer. Not much…

Fingers press against the column of Dean’s throat.

Pressure.

Familiar, trusted hands wrap around fluttering, vulnerable muscles. Dean bucks. He becomes rigid all over, harder than before, throbbing in the squelch and heat of Sam. His heart pumps faster as the pressure escalates. The angle changes. His air restricted, his cock ridden, all he can breathe in is Sam.

Like a crushing tide, a high slams into Dean.

Sam takes the blindfold off.

He is all Dean sees.

And he is all Dean hears.

“Come,” Sam gasps, desperate and needy. “Dean, come. Come _now_.”

It’s too much. It’s too much. It’s too much to be eye to eye, to look right into hazel eyes, to see that pink, generous mouth.

The high detonates.

Silk snaps. His hands go to Sam’s arms in front of him. He feels the flex of the muscles choking him, and he floats, completely washed over by the wave of pain and bliss.

Dean comes hard.

Eyes squeezed shut, tears fall. Sam’s hands release the pressure on his neck, but his hips double down as Dean fills him up. Fingers laced, Sam braces himself against Dean’s hands. The pressure around Dean’s cock intensifies. Clamped down over Dean, Sam lets out a scream and a shout, trembling all over, head tossed back.

It doesn’t stop there.

Again.

Silk snaps.

Dean flips them.

He rides the crest of his high, the ebb of Sam’s, and pounds into Sam, driving his cock in at the right angle. The headboard bangs into the wall as Dean pins Sam down and fucks into him without reservation, completely unhinged. Long legs wrap around Dean’s waist, pulling him in. Sam grips onto the sheets, twisting them in his fists, his mouth opening and eyes shutting tight.

Slamming into Sam, Dean forces a second orgasm from the both of them.

He stills his hips once, just to feel Sam contract around his cock.

It’s good.

So good.

Dazed, Dean slumps over Sam, spent and shaking. His entire body is thrumming with electricity, and the beat of his heart matches with a single syllable name: Sam, Sam, Sam.

He presses a kiss to Sam’s nose.

They are sweaty and sticky and completely out of breath. Hazel eyes look up at him like he’s just hung the moon, the stars, and the blazing sun.

Dean cards his hands through Sam’s hair.

Things are okay.

Here they are—mixed up, folded into each other—for better or for worse.

 _Hey_.

_I love you._

“I love you too, Dean.”

For as long as his heart beats the name etched into it, that’s all Dean ever has to hear, out loud or not.

 

**Author's Note:**

> phew! sorry i'm late, y'all! but better late than never, right? XD
> 
> songs here were "All About that Bass" by Megan Trainor and "Beg for It" by Nicki Minaj. 
> 
> all weekend, I had customers asking for 50 Shades of Grey. so i channeled that in here. i'm not a fan of that book or the movie, so i was like, what's better than consensual, slightly codependent bro sex? uh, very few things. 
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! leave me love. i hope y'all had a wonderful weekend. <3


End file.
